


A Visit Most Fowl

by OxfordOctopus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Coming Out, F/M, Gay Harry Potter, Gen, M/M, Minor Lavender Brown/Parvati Patil, Tired Harry, Veela (Harry Potter), seriously give this gremlin child a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 12:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20389672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OxfordOctopus/pseuds/OxfordOctopus
Summary: ( Fleur was, in Harry’s opinion, the worst type of good person. If she was any worse than she was, she’d certainly be a bad person, someone who took glee from the suffering of others, but she doesn’t, not really.She was just very fond of taking the mickey out of people.Which isn’t much better, honestly. Harry had thought he’d gotten rid of the groomed pigeon after fourth year, after his inability to feel her allure became apparent. She got real fucking fascinated then, started taking on worryingly fox-like smiles and a too-focused interest in his day-to-day life.It was how she caught him snogging Ludlow St John - a lovable, if somewhat dim fifth year in Hufflepuff - after he and Parvati had finished mechanically going through the motions of being dates, the girl in question going off to no doubt kiss Lavender in a broom closet or something. Fleur had been, of course, smug as she had ever been, and from then on in the girl had just not stopped when it came to nosing her way into his business and teasing him. )In which the visit to the Burrow before Harry's sixth year goes quite differently.





	A Visit Most Fowl

Fleur was, in Harry’s opinion, the worst type of good person. If she was any worse than she was, she’d certainly be a bad person, someone who took glee from the suffering of others, but she doesn’t, not really.

She was just very fond of taking the mickey out of people.

Which isn’t much better, honestly. Harry had thought he’d gotten rid of the groomed pigeon after fourth year, after his inability to feel her allure became apparent. She got _real_ fucking fascinated then, started taking on worryingly fox-like smiles and a too-focused interest in his day-to-day life.

It was how she caught him snogging Ludlow St John - a lovable, if somewhat dim fifth year in Hufflepuff - after he and Parvati had finished mechanically going through the motions of being dates, the girl in question going off to no doubt kiss Lavender in a broom closet or something. Fleur had been, of course, smug as she had ever been, and from then on in the girl had just _not stopped_ when it came to nosing her way into his business and teasing him.

Fleur was a clever bird, sometimes to the misfortune of others, and had caught on rather quick that the bullshit mythologized version of Harry’s allure immunity was just that: bullshit. She’d been given the option of Harry being some sort of mythical mental mage, as surely he had to be, if he could vanquish Voldemort - which he obviously did, if you ignored his Muggleborn mother with masteries in Warding, Runes and Arithmancy, as well as the rune literally etched into his fucking forehead - as an infant. She’d likely gone - in a horrible French accent, no less - ‘if ‘Arry Potter iz not a powerful mental mage, zen why iz he immune?’ with the obvious answer being ‘because he’s not attracted to women, why the fuck can’t the English realize that’.

She’d also probably caught him looking at Malfoy’s bum, as while the bleach-blonde bigoted shitheap was, well, a bigoted shitheap, he did have a nice arse all things considered.

Aside from the few blokes Harry had snogged before and after that incident, Fleur was well and truly the only person who knew he was into blokes. Hermione didn’t know - though she probably had her guesses - and he wouldn’t trust Ron with that information even at a mile’s distance, as the ginger would _almost certainly_ ask if he wanted to shag him, and when Harry would - obviously, have you seen the boy eat? - respond ‘no’, he’d get into a row about it and refuse to speak to him for a week because his ego was popped by his apparent unattractiveness. Ron would, then, immediately ignore the fact that Harry was gay until such a time where it came up again, and there’d be another row, or another fight, or something.

Merlin, he hoped Hermione had the decency to either shag or just beat some maturity into him, but Harry wasn’t betting on that happening anytime soon.

How did any of this matter?

Well. Did you know Fleur likes gingers?

Harry hadn’t, but now that she’s marrying one it’s rather obvious, in retrospect. It doesn’t mean she should be intentionally plucking at the Weasley family’s collective decorum with every scathing criticism, tucked politely into a overemphasized French accent, and neither does it mean she should be bringing him breakfast on a tray that could be _really_ misconstrued.

But she is anyway.

Because she’s Fleur, and Harry’s pretty sure she becomes more powerful the more people who have slanted opinions about her because she spent the formative moments of their relationship fucking with them. This what could only be called _birdy bitch energy_ is then, presumably, cycled back into her ever-expanding list of plots and labyrinthine mental games she inflicts on other people like Dumbledore does his awful sweets.

God, she’s a bitch.

He hates that he can’t fucking begrudge her for it, because if he had the same amount of emotional flexibility as Fleur did Harry’s pretty damn sure he’d be doing the same right along with her.

“You didn’t have to, Fleur, I’m a guest.” _What’s your angle, you flighty bitch? Why me?_

Fleur smiled, waving him off gracefully and placing the tray down at the foot of his bed, Ginny - who had forced her way into his room - staring mutinously at it. Hermione was off to the side, flicking her gaze between Fleur and Harry, no doubt coming to some sort of romance-novel inspired belief about their relationship, Victor’s short stint with the booky doing absolutely nothing to snuff out her more worrying ideas about relationships. Ron, well, Ron wasn’t quite there, his expression distant and bubbly and entirely too happy to see another woman, what with Hermione being in the room at the time.

“_Non_, ‘Arry! It eez my _pleasure_”—Harry restrained the urge to bash his head against the wall at her emphasizing that word in particular—“to do zis! I hope you enjoy, yes?” _I’m having too much fun with this, and your inclusion multiplies the enjoyment by quite a bit_.

Harry mirrored the Veela’s smile, though his was probably plasticky and stiff because he was _fucking_ tired and half-awake and just wanted to roll back over and fucking conk out for another few hours but _noooo_, bitches apparently wait for nobody. “Thanks.” _I hate you_.

Fleur stopped, her body just about to pass through the threshold of the door. She glanced back and this time her grin was well and truly shiteating, and nobody fucking noticed it. “You’re welcome.” _That’s why it’s so fun_.

The door shut with a click, and Ginny promptly exploded.

Harry shut his eyes and tuned out the ginger’s mouthy rant, burying himself back into the pillows. Hermione chiming in, agreeing with whatever Ginny was saying, wasn’t likely to be a good thing, and the solid _thud_ of something hitting flesh - probably Ron, seeing as the bloke took ages to come out of that allure stupor - just added to his unwillingness to partake in any of this.

“You agree with us, right Harry?”

Harry cracked an eye at that, a bit put off by how Ginny was hovering over him. “I wasn’t listening.”

“_Phlegm_”—Harry grimaced at the sheer fucking _vitriol_ that could be found in a girl _so goddamn tiny_—“is obviously up to no good, I mean, she does this sort of thing!”

Harry couldn’t disagree with that, but he also couldn’t really agree with it either. It was the context, see, because in all likelihood Ginny was still caught up on her crush and was of the opinion that Fleur was here to pilfer the Weasleys of their men - or men-to-be, as Harry had been unfortunately tagged with - whereas Harry was of the opinion that Bill and Fleur had themselves wrapped around each-other’s fingers like some disgustingly sappy ouroboros, and Fleur would sooner turn into a polite English housewife than she would cheat on Bill.

Which meant he had to defend her. Because as the sole man who was instantly immune to her allure, he was expected to agree with the women, and he couldn’t. Because Fleur was a bitch, but not with the intent to harm, just with the goal of being _incredibly, infuriatingly annoying_.

The door swung open again before Harry could make his case, Fleur’s head - accompanied by Bill, speaking of the devil - popping in, giving the room a look, before finally entering in truth. Ginny’s hostility _immediately_ turned onto the Veela, as she was already worked up into a Molly-worthy rant and looking for a target, whereas Ron was once more reduced to an unresponsive pile of bony limbs and ginger hair.

Harry’s mouth shut with an audible _click_. He was playing into her game if he defended her, if he stirred the pot of bullshit. The only way out of this was to just _admit_ that he was gay and take his leave from the argument with the excuse that he understood women _even less_ \- though he never really understood how people couldn’t understand women, seeing as blokes were _just_ as complicated and it didn’t take a social genius to read between the lines - before fucking legging it to the closest hiding spot to wait out Ginny’s inevitable emotional breakdown.

Bill glanced around the now-silent group, eyes hesitating almost fearfully on the wound-up Ginny, and then flicking to Harry, a bit of mirth filling out his expression.

Of course she told Bill. Of course.

Fucking shite.

“How’s everyone doing?” Bill asked, voice pleasant.

Ginny scowled. “I’ve been better. I thought you weren’t supposed to see the bride? Mum said—”

“Mum,” Bill interrupted, a hint of frustration steeling his tone, “misunderstood a Muggle wedding tradition about not seeing the bride in her wedding dress, and seeing as she isn’t wearing it, and that we’re not marrying until next summer, I don’t think it applies.”

Ginny muttered something to the effect of “well, _I_ think it should.”

Hermione, eyes still trained on Fleur, eventually glanced over to Ron, then to Harry, then back to Ron. Her increasingly frustrated scowl meant he should probably be _looking_ at Ron, as if to prove Hermione’s point that he wasn’t paying attention to, but he resolutely decided against it, opting to stare at Bill’s arse in protest.

“Ah, well! I am _very_ glad that we are, though!” Fleur interjected in a voice that meant she obviously caught him staring and was making this into a point. A glance at Bill’s face - and the slight quiver in his affable smile - showed that he also knew what Harry was doing, why he was doing it, and found it really funny. Great. A match made in heaven.

“Well I don’t!” Ginny erupted, easily being hooked by Fleur’s too-bubbly attitude. “Harry! You agree, right?”

Harry said nothing, because of course he wouldn’t.

“She’s _Fleur_! Harry!” Ginny repeated, as though it would _change_ anything. “She’s _French_! She’s playing with Bill, you have to see—”

“I’m gay.”

Ginny’s rant cut off with a strangled noise. “What?”

“I like blokes.”

“No you don’t,” Ginny cut in.

Harry rolled his eyes, trying not to stare too much at how Fleur’s shoulders were shaking and her face was pinched, trying desperately to hold back what was no doubt smug fucking laughter. “One of my goals is to suck a man to fruition, I want to one day see if it’s true that an Irishman has as much stamina as they say they do”—should he really be saying this to a fourth year? Fuck it—“I like blokes, I like blokes bums, I only went to Yule with Parvati so I could have a cover.”

“No!” Ginny’s voice was edging into panic, and for a moment Harry really did understand Fleur’s morbid obsession about fucking with people. “That’s a lie! You’re not!”

Harry leveled a flat stare at Ginny, pushed all of his tiredness into his expression, exceeded the deadpan and ascended into something even more viscerally tired-of-your-shite. “Ginny,” he said, keeping his voice slow, empty, and _very_ done with her bullshit. “I ogle Malfoy’s bum, because it’s a tight, perky arse that’d be nice on anyone but the racist little pillock he is.”

Fleur started to laugh, and it was just as smug as he imagined it to be. Bill was hunched over into her shoulder, hugging his own stomach, weakly shaking and letting out spasmodic cackles that were mostly muffled. Ron was still too out of it to realize what just went down, Hermione looked like he’d just given her the answer to life itself, and Ginny looked simultaneously outraged, resigned, and romantically shattered.

It was to nobody’s surprise that the youngest Weasley quickly fled, kicking the door frame in anger as she did.

Fleur doubled over, Ron’s expression got happier - because her laughter was musical - and Hermione, warily, glanced in the direction Ginny went, let out a resigned sigh, and mumbled that she’d “go and get her, but we’re talking after this, Harry” before leaving.

“Did you really need to do this?” Harry asked, reaching over to scoop up some of the now cold porridge with a spoon, spreading it over his tongue and finding it largely inoffensive, if a little bland. “Couldn’t you just, _not_, for once?”

Bill crumpled against the wall, breathing heavily to regain his breath while Fleur finally steadied herself, gave him a look, and grinned in the same way she had when she’d caught him with Ludlow’s tongue down his throat. “Are you really asking that?”

“No. I guess I’m not.”

“Wuh?”

“Oh, goddammit Ron, get off the floor.”


End file.
